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SIYE Time:14:34 on 29th March 2024
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Path Diverged II
By hp_fangal

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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-HBP
Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Ron Weasley, Sirius Black
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Romance
Warnings: Disturbing Imagery, Mental Abuse, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 220
Summary: The Wizarding world finally knows that Lord Voldemort has returned, and the Second War has begun. As Harry prepares to enter his sixth year at Hogwarts, he is forced to deal with the trauma from his last encounter with Voldemort, the upcoming trial of Dolores Umbridge, Sirius's uncomfortable questions about his childhood, his budding relationship with Ginny Weasley, and the unknown shadow of what lies ahead as the "Chosen One" who must defeat Voldemort once and for all. This is an AU take of Half-Blood Prince following my previous story, Path Diverged.
Hitcount: Story Total: 92324; Chapter Total: 3343
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Homework sucks almost as much as lesson planning, but here we are, anyway! This chapter went a bit more quickly because parts of it do come from HBP chapter 4, "Horace Slughorn". I do feel that there are certain things that are going to stay the same, and this is one of those things. You'll see what I mean as you read this chapter. I tried to make this chapter my own as much as possible, though. Enjoy!




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Chapter Twelve: The Favor



Despite his best efforts to do so, Harry couldn’t sleep.

Tossing and turning for a solid three hours as his thoughts refused to settle left Harry feeling both frustrated and hungry, so he decided to head down to the kitchen to see if he could find something to eat or maybe ask Kreacher if he could get him a snack of some kind.

What he found instead was Professor Dumbledore, alone, sipping a cup of tea with his left hand and looking quite relaxed.

“Ah, Harry,” he said with a genial smile, “unable to rest, either, I take it?”

“No, sir,” said Harry, feeling very awkward in his pajamas (these ones he’d nicked from Ron when he outgrew them; the waistband fit much better than anything Dudley’s hand-me-downs had ever had to offer) and a pair of old slippers Sirius had found in a closet upstairs. “It doesn’t happen too often, though.”

“Sometimes the mind can be incredibly difficult to quiet,” said Dumbledore, nodding knowingly. “Tea, Harry?”

“Thanks, Professor.” Harry sat down at the kitchen table as Dumbledore pulled out his wand with his right hand. His eyes were immediately drawn to it, seeing that the hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.

“Sir,” Harry couldn’t help but ask, “what happened to your hand?”

Dumbledore glanced at his hand with a small smile. “I’m afraid that’s a story for another time, Harry. It is a rather thrilling tale and I wish to do it justice.” A cup of tea slid neatly onto the table before Harry, and he sipped from it, still feeling awkward.

“How are you settling in here, Harry?” asked Dumbledore after a few minutes.

“Oh, er… okay, I suppose.” The morning hadn’t exactly been pleasant, but the rest of the day had been fine. Silence fell in the kitchen once more.

As he finished the last sip of his tea, Dumbledore spoke again. “I wonder if, since you are already awake, you might do me a favor and help me with a problem that I’ve been struggling to rectify?”

“Sir?”

“You are aware that, once again, I find myself short one member of staff.”

This was true. Umbridge had been arrested and was being held in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for her crimes against Harry.

“How can I help with that?”

“I have a teacher in mind,” answered Dumbledore, “an old colleague of mine, but he has proven difficult to both track down and persuade. However, the man is attracted to the famous, the successful, and the powerful, and I believe that meeting you with all the press you’ve garnered of late” – Harry flushed at the mention of the press, recalling their newest obsession with calling him the ‘Chosen One’ – “might convince him to come out of hiding to teach at Hogwarts.”

Harry considered this. He didn’t much like using his fame in such a way, but then again, hadn’t Madam Bones said he ought to be more in control of his image? This might be a way to practice doing just that, now that he thought about it.

“What exactly would I need to do?” Harry asked slowly.

“Just meet the man, have a chat with him,” said Dumbledore easily. “I am certain he will be drawn to you despite his best efforts and can be persuaded to take the job once more. I do not think the whole thing would take very long.”

Harry hesitated. “Why him?” he asked. “Couldn’t you find someone else?”

“I could,” said Dumbledore, “but he is an expert in his field, and his return would be rather advantageous to the school.”

Harry considered this, and finally nodded. “Okay, sir,” he said. “I’ll er, go change really quick, then.”

Dumbledore beamed and dismissed him, thought not before asking Harry to make sure he had both his wand and his Invisibility Cloak “just in case.” Hurrying back to his room, it suddenly occurred to Harry that he ought to ask Sirius for permission before heading off with the headmaster. Would Sirius find it acceptable that he was about to go who-knows-where with Dumbledore?

Possibly not, now that Harry considered it, but then, he wanted to trust Dumbledore, and it didn’t seem like a difficult favor to do for him. Convincing a former teacher to come out of hiding probably wouldn't be that hard, after all, not to mention that Dumbledore said it wouldn’t take long. He would be safe with the headmaster, he was certain of at least that.

There was also the fact that Sirius had lost a lot of sleep over the previous week thanks to Harry’s nightmares. The man had to be exhausted from dealing with Harry’s issues. This would ensure he got a break while Harry was unable to fall asleep. Deciding against waking Sirius up, Harry dressed and hurried back down to the kitchen. “I’m ready, sir,” he said.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore rose, banished the remains of their tea, and led Harry up to the front door. They stepped outside into the brisk, chilled air and went over to the little patch of grass in the middle of the square. “Take my left arm if you will, Harry.”

Harry knew what was coming, but still didn’t enjoy the sensation of Side-Along Apparition any more than he had the first time. “Where are we?” he asked once he could breathe again.

“This,” Dumbldore pronounced as they set off past an empty inn and a few houses, “is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.”

“And why are we all the way out here? Couldn’t we have just Apparated right into your old colleague’s house?”

“It would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door to do such thing,” Dumbledore answered calmly as they rounded a corner and went past a telephone box and a bus shelter. “Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance –”

“– you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,” said Harry quickly. “Hermione told me.”

“And she is quite right.” They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for the last two weeks persisted here too. The more he thought about it, the more it reminded him of dementors.

“Sir,” he said after a moment, “the misty chill in the air…”

“That,” Dumbledore sighed, “is the result of the dementors that abandoned Azkaban. Fear not, Harry, there are none close by, but I am afraid that they are breeding, which is the source of all this mist we are experiencing across the country.”

Dementors could breed? Harry was incredibly disturbed by the thought.

They walked in silence for a little ways before Harry spoke again. “Sirius received a letter from the new Minister about meeting with me.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, “he has reached out to me about you, as well. Rufus Scrimgeour is a very capable wizard, having previously been the Head of the Auror office, and is certainly a more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius in many ways. He has also fought Dark wizards for most of his life, and as such, he does not underestimate Lord Voldemort. However, he has listened to Cornelius regarding the idea he came up with in his final days of office of having you throw your support behind the Ministry. Such a move is purely political, of course,” Dumbledore added with a sidelong glance at Harry.

Harry grimaced. “I don’t like the idea of being used like that,” he admitted, “especially if it means tricking people into thinking I support the Ministry after everything that happened over the last year.”

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, directing Harry around a corner and continuing on. “Sirius and I have had some disagreements regarding your care since the events at the Ministry last month, but we are both of the same opinion that your image should not be tarnished in such a way.”

Harry wondered just how much they had argued about him since that life-changing night. He had noticed some tension in the Dursley’s kitchen the other night, and he knew that Sirius had attempted to try and get more information out of Dumbledore about how to defeat someone immortal more than once. He decided to just ask.

“Sir,” he ventured, “that night, when you told me everything, you didn’t say exactly how I’m supposed to defeat Voldemort.”

Dumbledore sighed. “The reason for that,” he answered at length, “is the information I will be imparting in our lessons together this coming school year is beyond the firm foundation of fact. Voldemort has done much to conceal his past, including the lengths to which he has gone to achieve immortality. If you will recall, you told me after Voldemort’s resurrection in the graveyard that he claimed to have gone ‘further than anyone’ in his quest to conquer death. I have been seeking out what exactly it was he did that has allowed him to exist beyond a rebounded Killing Curse, to be able to make such a claim as he did that night. Ah, this is the place, Harry, just here…”

“So, you have an idea, at least,” said Harry as they neared a small, neat stone house set in its own garden.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, which was quickly followed by him stopping abruptly and saying, “Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.”

Harry stumbled to a halt before he could walk into the headmaster and focused on the house once more, realizing the front door was hanging off its hinges. His heart sank. If Sirius found out about this trip, including the possibility that Harry’s life had been in jeopardy in any way, he’d be furious.

Dumbledore glanced up and down the street.

“Wand out and follow me, Harry,” he said quietly.

He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready.

“Lumos.”

Dumbledore’ s wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. Harry had never seen the like of it before. Chairs upturned, grand piano smashed, the grandfather clock in the corner battered almost beyond recognition…

“Not pretty, is it?” Dumbledore said heavily, wand light revealing something darkly red and glutinous spattered over the ripped wallpaper. He moved slowly into the middle of the room, Harry nervously looking around him as he waited to be greeted by a dead body.

There was nothing. “Could someone have attacked him and then dragged him off?” he finally asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.

“You mean he’s –?”

“Still here somewhere? Yes.”

And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”

“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and glaring up at Dumbledore.

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.”

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin.

“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead, clearly annoyed he had missed something so crucial. Dumbledore offered to help him set the house to rights, and Harry watched in amazement as the grandfather clock was reassembled, the grand piano was put to rights, the chandelier pieces returned to their rightful places as it reaffixed itself to the ceiling, and the blood (“On the walls?” said the wizard called Horace. “Dragon.”) was wiped clean from the walls.

One last plunk from the piano sounded, and the room became silent.

“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.”

Harry watched as he stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.

“Hmm,” he mused. “Bit dusty.” He set the bottle back down and sighed.

Then he spotted Harry.

“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry’s forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!”

“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.”

He pushed past Harry, who couldn’t help but notice how the man’s face was turned resolutely away as though he were trying to resist a great temptation. It seemed Dumbledore was on the right track by asking Harry for this favor. He couldn’t help but wonder what was so great about this man that he ought to come out of retirement, though. An expert in his field? What field was that, exactly?

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?”

Slughorn hesitated, then gave in. Dumbledore silently directed Harry toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry was sure this must have been done specifically to keep him as visible as possible. When Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.

“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. Harry fought to conceal a grin as Slughorn shoved a drink at Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, before thrusting the tray at him. He silently took the offered drink and watched as Slughorn sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa in disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.

Dumbledore asked after Slughorn’s health, and Harry got to hear a litany of ailments. It seemed Slughorn was determined to keep his answer to working at Hogwarts a firm “no.”

“You’re not yet as old as I am,” said Dumbledore at one point in the conversation as Harry watched silently.

“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand…”

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: it was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

Dumbledore asked about Slughorn’s precautions against intruders as Harry finished and set aside his drink, and Slughorn admitted he hadn’t bothered waiting to see if any Death Eaters would come after him once rumors began to spread of Voldemort’s return; indeed, he had been on the run for the last year, never staying in one place for more than a week.

“It sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life,” Dumbledore commented. “Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts –”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus!” Slughorn cut him off. “I might have been in hiding, but I’ve still heard about the arrest of one Dolores Umbridge –”

Harry convulsively grasped at his right hand and dug in his nails over the scarred flesh to try and forestall the flashback, but it came, anyway. Umbridge standing over him, a grim smile twisting her toad-like features as she pointed her wand right at him and screamed out the Cruciatus Curse. She was laughing – no, Voldemort was laughing as he was locked in a prison of fire that spread into his very bones –

“Harry! Harry, look at me.”

The flashback ended abruptly, and Harry suddenly found himself still sitting in the same chair as before, breathing harshly. Dumbledore was kneeling before him with his uninjured hand tightly clasped over Harry’s, the other gently pressed against his shoulder. Harry looked into his blue eyes and tried to breathe more slowly, remembering the calming technique Sirius had used with him multiple times now to forestall any panic attacks over the past week.

“That’s my boy,” said Dumbledore quietly, “even and slow, in and out, that’s right…”

“Sorry,” whispered Harry. “L-land mine.”

Fortunately, Dumbledore seemed to understand what Harry was trying to say and nodded, gently patting his left hand over Harry’s before withdrawing it. Harry released his right hand and saw he’d dug in the nails of his left hand hard enough to draw blood. Dumbledore waved his wand and the tiny, crescent shaped wounds sealed over at once, though the words scarred into his skin remained: I must not tell lies.

“Merlin’s beard,” Slughorn suddenly said, “it’s all true, isn’t it? She actually tortured the poor boy last month!”

Harry cast his eyes down, silently counting breaths and doing his best not to think about it.

“Teachers who so blatantly abuse my students do not last long at Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore firmly as he rose and returned to his seat. “Dolores Umbridge learned this the hard way. Harry will be bearing witness to her atrocities this past year in August to ensure that she is put away for a very long time.” He looked at Harry and smiled. “I daresay the public opinion will be in his favor these days, after all.”

Harry tried to smile back. He didn’t really want to be here, anymore, and wished he knew how to send messages with his patronus. Having Sirius here might have been better than just he and Dumbledore. He didn’t quite know what to make of the look Slughorn was giving him now, and averted his eyes once more.

“I wonder,” said Dumbledore abruptly, “if I might use your bathroom.”

“Oh,” said Slughorn, startled. “Second on the left down the hall.”

Harry felt even more unsettled at being alone with the other man after the way he had just embarrassed himself.

“Are you quite all right, my boy?” Slughorn finally ventured to ask.

Harry nodded tightly. “Having Umbridge for a teacher wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience,” he admitted. “I can’t say I liked her all that much.”

Slughorn nodded, then said, “You look very like your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got –”

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often he found it bit wearing.

“Yes, well… You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harry’s questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?”

“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s face and wagging a stubby finger at him, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always though,” he added thoughtfully. “Your godfather, Sirius Black, for example – in Gryffindor after generations of Slytherin heritage. Shame, that. He’s quite talented. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

“That’s an odd way to speak about them,” Harry couldn’t help but say. “You sound a bit like a collector who was outbid at an auction.”

Slughorn stared at him a moment, but guffawed quite loudly. “You certainly have her cheeky attitude, I must say!” he said. “I remember I was most surprised to realize she was Muggle-born, I thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good in both Charms and Potions – well, anything she did, really.”

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry, “and she’s the best in our year.”

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn.

“Not really,” said Harry coldly. He wasn’t sure he liked the man all that much.

Slughorn, however, was quick to try and disabuse him of the notion that he was prejudiced, showing Harry photographs of the many students whom he had helped through his many various connections, a full mixture of Muggle-born, half-blood, and pure-blood witches and wizards. He spoke quite fondly of all of them, pointing out the owner of Honeydukes, the editor of the Daily Prophet, and even Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies. Harry immediately thought of Ginny and knew she’d love to meet the woman as she was the captain of her favorite Quidditch team. Slughorn also spoke of the gifts they frequently showered on him for the help he had provided in securing their current jobs.

“All these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” Harry finally asked him. He couldn’t imagine how the man had managed to stay hidden from the Death Eaters if these people could so easily find him to deliver hampers of sweets, free tickets, and more.

The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

“No,” he answered, looking astonished at the admission. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “It wouldn’t have to be like that at Hogwarts,” he pointed out.

“Teaching there would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix!” Slughorn countered him immediately.

Harry couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “You really think every teacher at Hogwarts is in the Order?” he asked derisively. “That’s rubbish. Most of them aren’t, I’ve met pretty much the entire Order myself. And,” he went on at Slughorn’s surprised expression, “I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?”

Harry had been sure that Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.

“The only teacher who’s ever died at Hogwarts was working with Voldemort,” Harry went on blithely, “and he got what he deserved. As of right now, there are no Death Eaters at Hogwarts.”

Slughorn shot him a shrewd look. “What about Severus Snape?” he questioned. “I heard the rumors back in the day that he joined You-Know-Who’s ranks.”

“Not a Death Eater,” said Harry with a shrug, not caring to elaborate on that particular point about the man acting as a double-agent for their side. “Look, if you’re as good a teacher as Dumbledore seems to believe, then Hogwarts would be more than glad to have you. The school’s never been attacked. It’s got to be safer there than constantly being on the run, I’d expect.”

Slughorn seemed to consider Harry’s words for a long moment. “This is… a very good point you make, Harry,” he said slowly. “I suppose… it might be prudent to place myself somewhere rather untouchable…”

“What do you teach, anyway?” asked Harry. Given that Slughorn had specifically mentioned Charms and Potions in relation to his mother’s talents, he wasn’t entirely certain that the man had ever taught Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“Oh, Potions, my boy,” answered Slughorn.

Wait, what?

What about Snape?

Harry suddenly remembered Percy’s words from his very first night at Howgarts. “He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to – everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”

Dumbledore was giving him the job that no teacher had managed more than a year in?

That meant that it didn’t matter if Harry passed his Potions O.W.L., he realized with a sinking feeling. He’d more than easily aced Defense Against the Dark Arts, so Snape would still be his teacher no matter what he did. There was no escaping the man. Harry hated it, but if he was going to help Dumbledore out, then he needed to accept this reality and push on.

Besides, if the job really was jinxed, Snape would be gone before the school year was over, anyway, and Harry would at last be rid of the man.

“What grade do you accept for N.E.W.T. level students?” asked Harry, forcing his mind back into the moment. “Only Professor Snape has always insisted on nothing below Outstanding and I don’t know what I got just yet on my O.W.L.'s.”

“I accept Exceeds Expectations as well as Outstanding,” answered Slughorn. “Or well, that’s what I used to do, anyway.”

Harry considered this. “Do you insult students who make mistakes?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Merlin’s beard, no!” he exclaimed. “Good teachers encourage learning experiences from mistakes, don’t they?”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Then if you come back, more students might like that class,” he said. “Snape always favors Slytherin students, so the atmosphere in there is… tense.” Harry could think of much more colorful words to describe Snape’s classes, in all honesty, but wasn’t sure he should voice any of them where Dumbledore could possibly overhear.

“The students don’t like Potions class?” said Slughorn, sounding aghast. “Please don’t tell me that includes you.”

“It’s a tie between it, Divination, and History of Magic,” Harry answered honestly. “I’ve wondered at times if a different teacher could’ve changed that.”

Slughorn frowned, seeming to be very deep in thought now. Harry decided to just go for it.

“I think you’d be safer there than being in hiding all the time,” he said firmly. “I also think you’ve probably been missing all that free stuff your former students used to give you.”

Slughorn hesitated, then opened his mouth –

Dumbledore suddenly reentered the room, holding onto a magazine he’d likely taken from the loo, and Slughorn jumped as though he’d forgotten he was in the house.

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a very long time. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “Do you mind if I keep this one?” he asked, holding up the magazine. “I do love knitting patterns!”

Harry couldn't quite contain a grin as Slughorn nodded, a bewildered expression on his face.

“Well, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, “I do think that we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn seemed taken aback.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, indeed. I think I know I lost cause when I see one.”

“Lost…?” Slughorn hesitated. “I know why you brought him here, Albus, but I…”

“Do not worry yourself about it at all,” said Dumbledore pleasantly as he retrieved his traveling cloak and slid the magazine into an inner pocket. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”

Slughorn stared, agape as Dumbledore pulled on his traveling cloak and Harry pulled up the zip on his jacket.

“Good-bye, then.” Dumbledore reached out for Harry’s shoulder and went to guide him from the room.

“All right, I’ll do it!”

Harry and Dumbledore looked around to see that Slughorn had all but leapt to his feet.

“You will come out of retirement?” asked Dumbledore, sounding as though he were surprised, though Harry knew it was all an act.

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but if what the boy says is true about the current loathing of my beloved subject, then yes!”

“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn.

As they exited through the front door, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore, and Professor Merrythought’s old office!”

Dumbledore chuckled. The front door shut behind them with a firm snap.

“So,” said Harry, grinning widely, “how’d I do?”

“Quite excellently, Harry,” answered Dumbledore with a proud smile. “You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

“Not exactly,” admitted Harry, the grin fading. “I suppose he seems nice enough, but the way he talked about my mum as though it was so surprising that a Muggle-born could make a good witch… Without Hermione, I’d struggle a lot more in some of my classes. The type of blood you have doesn’t automatically determine your abilities.”

“You will often find that pure-blood supremacy is deeply embedded in our culture,” said Dumbledore with a slow nod. “Even in those who do not think they are prejudiced. Horace, though, he rather likes his comfort, regardless of where it comes from. He formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return. He doesn’t want the occupy the throne himself, Harry; rather, he prefers the backseat – more room to spread out, you see.”

In more ways than one, Harry thought.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace – or, as must now call him, Professor Slughorn – but to put you on your guard. Meeting you has drawn him out of hiding, just as we hoped, but he will go further and try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection: ‘the Boy Who Lived’… or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’”

“I can’t say I like any of that,” muttered Harry. “I’m just a kid who keeps ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I assure you, Harry, that there is much more to you than that.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You’re giving Sn – Professor Snape the Dark Arts job, aren’t you, sir.” It wasn’t a question.

Dumbledore stopped walking and turned to face Harry. “It is a strategic choice,” he admitted. “Professor Snape stepping in to protect you last month meant that he was forced to reveal Voldemort’s scheme to get you to the Department of Mysteries. As much as Voldemort trusts any of his followers, the events of that evening, and Professor Snape’s role in those events, caused some damage that needed to be repaired.”

“Giving Professor Snape the job he’s wanted all these years was – damage control?”

“In a sense, yes,” said Dumbledore. “But there is much to potentially gain from Professor Slughorn’s return, as well.”

“Like being collected by Professor Slughorn,” said Harry bitterly. “I agreed do the trial for Umbridge, and that’s hard enough, but hanging around a man who wants to use me for the scar on my forehead is pushing it a bit. Sir,” he amended hastily.

He wanted so badly to trust Dumbledore, but the vague way in which he spoke, the secrets, the lies he’d endured all these years… Harry was finding it difficult to trust as he once had. There had been a lot of damage done in the last year.

“Sometimes,” said Dumbledore after a long pause, “we are all forced to do things that we would rather not for the sake of our cause. I’ve already told you that I have made sacrifices in the name of war before for the greater good of the many. It is not unlike sacrificing a knight to check the king in a game of chess, I should think.”

Harry winced a bit, remembering Ron doing exactly that to get him and Hermione one step closer to the Philosopher’s Stone their first year. “Which piece does that make me, then, sir?” he asked boldly.

Dumbledore’s piercing gaze met his. “You are the king,” he answered simply before striding forward once more. Harry stared after him for a few seconds, trying to take in the answer.

Without you, the war can’t be won, he reminded himself. You have to fulfill the prophecy one way or the other.

He’d never considered himself in this way before, though. Ron used to explain when he was first teaching Harry how to play chess that the king had to be protected at all costs. A checkmate did signal the end of the game, after all, but the king was also limited in its ability to move. Others had to protect it, even be sacrificed for it to keep it safe and win the game.

Harry wasn’t so sure he liked the idea of being like the king on a chessboard, and he certainly didn’t care for the idea of other sacrificing themselves for him. Hadn’t his own parents’ deaths been enough?

Hurrying after the headmaster once more, Harry did his best to put the idea from his mind. He didn’t want to continue along that line of thought anymore.

Eventually, Dumbledore reached a point he deemed safe enough to use for Apparating. Harry grasped his arm and took a solid breath before he was sucked through that dark, oppressive tube and landed on the small patch of grass outside of Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore quickly escorted Harry to the front door and opened it to reveal the panicked and angry face of Sirius.

“Where were you?” he demanded so loudly as they entered that his mother’s portrait immediately began to scream, the curtains that usually hid her flying open to reveal her horrid face as she screamed obscenities at them.

“My apologies, Sirius,” said Dumbledore loudly over the racket. “Harry was quickly assisting me with a small problem.”

“A small problem?” Sirius shouted back at him. “You’ve been gone for over an hour!”

Harry was surprised he’d been gone that long, and that Sirius even knew about it.

“I knew you’d try something like this once Harry was free of the Dursleys for the summer,” raged Sirius as his mother shrieked about blood traitors besmirching her ancestral home. “What were you doing with him? Sharing state secrets?”

“Sirius,” Harry spoke up, “it wasn’t like that, I was just –”

“Don’t try me right now, Harry,” Sirius cut him off harshly. “Go to your room and wait for me. I need to clear the air with the headmaster right now, and I can’t do it if you’re going to take his side.”

Harry was startled by the order. Sirius had never acted like this toward him before. He hesitated for a moment, but obeyed, heading up to his room on the second landing as Sirius continued to shout over his mother’s screams and shutting his bedroom door, feeling completely bewildered.

Maybe Harry didn’t fully trust Dumbledore as he once had, but it had just been a favor, and Harry had been safe the entire time, hadn’t he? “Maybe I should have told him where I was going before taking off,” he pondered aloud.

“That would have been ideal, yes,” came the voice of Phineas Nigellus, Sirius’s great-great grandfather and a former headmaster of Hogwarts. His portrait was located in Harry’s room, but he had another portrait in the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, so it was easy to keep an eye on him here. Harry abruptly wondered why Sirius hadn’t put him in a different room to keep him from being spied on, especially given his current mood toward the headmaster.

Harry glared at the portrait, but said nothing else, instead redressing in his pajamas and clambering into bed.

Sirius had already stopped shouting, and the portrait of Mrs. Black had been silenced now, but Harry was exhausted from all the walking, Apparating twice, and the visit to Slughorn. Despite his desire to stay up and wait for Sirius, he ended up falling asleep, instead.
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